


A New Life

by LeilaKalomi



Series: The Perfect Blend [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (NOT AZIRAPHALE), Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Disinheritance, Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, Partner Betrayal, Unhealthy Relationships, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Aziraphale got his happy ending, but I still felt like Crowley needed a little more.So this is a bit of a prequel and a bit of a sequel toThe Perfect Blend, delving into Crowley's backstory and insecurities, and showing a glimpse of a hopeful future. The ending is very soft.(The rating refers to one section of chapter 2, which has been marked so you can skip it if you like.)
Relationships: (past), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Crowley/Eric (Good Omens)
Series: The Perfect Blend [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941463
Comments: 58
Kudos: 84





	1. Shopkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta, EveningStarcatcher!

It had been a year since Crowley had packed up his belongings from the tiny flat he’d been living in in Tadfield, a year since he’d begun to share a home and a life with Aziraphale. A future he had not seen for himself, but one that was better than everything he’d ever thought he’d have.

There had been quite a lot he’d once thought he’d have.

None of it included a tiny village in Oxford, the tartan sofa where Crowley was now sat, or a soft, old-fashioned, waistcoat-wearing, bibliophile who was so skilled at brewing tea Crowley was pretty sure it qualified as magic. And yet, that was what he had, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He wasn’t sure the ring he’d purchased was necessary, really, but well, Aziraphale would appreciate the gesture, he was sure. He told himself that was why, that it was for Aziraphale. Nothing to do with craving permanency, nothing to do with the way he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night and reached for the angel, afraid he’d somehow dreamt it all, that in reality, he’d gone home alone after helping the angel move his things, and was now facing the prospect of returning to London, penniless and alone, having hurt and lost the man who’d changed him, changed everything for him.

Because before Tadfield, Crowley had been different. _Things_ had been different.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t a bad person, exactly. At least, he didn’t think he was. He had a nice flat in Mayfair, a handsome boyfriend, Eric, and a proud father, who was planning to leave him the management and fortune of the company he’d built, MorningStar Coffee, the largest coffee company in the UK, larger even than Hasta La Coffee, its chief competitor. MorningStar Coffee was good, all arabica, and Crowley was proud of the different blends and espresso drinks they offered. They could afford to hire the best flavor designers and chefs, and their marketing was stellar. Right now, in addition to working on flavor design, Crowley managed the flagship shop—his father thought it was important for him to have that sort of boots-on-the-ground experience—but eventually, Crowley would be named CEO.

He’d never had to worry about a career.

There had been a time, as a child, when he’d dreamed of being an astronaut, of learning about the stars and going to outer space, but as he’d gotten older and realized how hard it would be, he’d cultivated his interest in coffee, in business management, and he was good at it. His father was pleased with him, and that mattered to him—it had always mattered to him— especially since his mother had left when he was seven. Later, when he thought about when he’d stopped wanting to be an astronaut, he wondered if it had been as simple as wanting to please his father after his mother left, as if maybe his father wouldn’t leave too if he could just prove that he was worth staying for.

Crowley stayed busy, and so did Eric, a successful photographer. But on the weekends, they went out to the theater, to art museums, or for walks in the park.

It was on one of these walks that Crowley proposed. Went down on one knee for Eric in the park, watching as his eyebrows went up in shock. Eric had always been a little in awe of Crowley. Crowley’d always felt a little like he liked Crowley more than Crowley liked him. But he was sure now. And he wanted to do this for him, show him.

Eric froze, pressed his hands to his chest. His phone was in one of them, which ruined the effect just a little, but it was very _him_.

“Hell yes!” he shouted. Crowley stood up and Eric flung himself at him. “Can’t bloody wait,” he said. “Take your name and all.”

“You just want to shed that monstrosity,” Crowley growled, ignoring the coos and applause from passersby. Eric’s last name, Rubish, was mispronounced a little too often and he’d complained about it more than once.

* * *

With the engagement more or less settled, and wedding planning well underway, even though it had only been a few days (Crowley was nothing if not organized), Crowley set about something he probably should have done a bit sooner, on reflection: telling his father he was gay. (OK, so Crowley was organized in terms of minutiae, less so when it came to other, more weighty matters.)

The problem wasn’t so much that Crowley was worried about his father’s reaction. Luc Crowley was stubborn, a rather hard man, really, but Crowley had always been on his good side, in his good graces, to the extent that they existed. It was just that every time Crowley had planned to talk about it, something else had come up. In school, it hadn’t seemed too relevant—he’d been mostly focused on his work, and there weren’t any other gay kids in the village school (they hadn’t moved to London until Crowley had hit his final year), and then at university, well, there was no reason to tell his father much of anything. There had never been anyone special until Eric. But two years ago, just when things with Eric had gotten serious enough that Crowley might want to bring him around, introduce him, his father had gotten his diagnosis: pancreatic cancer. Crowley hadn’t wanted to add any other difficult, potentially fraught conversations to the mix, so he simply...hadn’t. Eric had claimed he understood, but now, if they were engaged, well, Crowley couldn’t keep that from his father. And he didn’t want to. He hoped he’d be there at his wedding, wishing him well. He hoped this could maybe show him that he’d settled down, become the kind of stable, responsible man his father could trust.

Not that Crowley had ever been _irresponsible_ , exactly, but sometimes he got the impression that his father expected even more from him than he asked, and this was one area where Crowley, in his late forties, was intensely aware that he was lacking. At least by the standards of someone as wily and ornery as his father, always eager to demonstrate superiority in any regard.

Luc was having a good day that Wednesday, Crowley’s day off. Crowley found him sitting on a soft chair that had been moved to the garden, his lower body wrapped in a blanket. He was sipping a cup of some putrid-smelling tea that he insisted settled his stomach, even as the smell of it nearly wrecked Crowley's.

He was thin, had always been thin, but this was a new frailty, as if his bones were made of glass, his skin pale and silkspun, the wisps of hair like sheer gossamer. Crowley had not grown used to it, and now he tried not to let his eyes linger on the blue veins, the dark circles under his father’s eyes.

“Anthony.” His father turned his head to look at him as he approached, then extended a hand toward the only other seat in the garden, a cement bench more for decoration than actual sitting. Crowley lowered himself onto it, his knees up over his waist, and his buttocks already screaming for relief.

Crowley made conversation a moment, asking him how he was doing (“Oh, you know how how I’m doing. Well enough for this, which is something, but it’s all only a matter of time at this point.”) and commenting on the decent weather (“Obviously. Yes, for this time of year. Otherwise I wouldn’t be out of doors at all.”)

There was a lull, then. And Luc Crowley drained off his tea and set it down on the little portable table someone had placed beside him. There was a brief commotion when a maid appeared and took his mug and he watched her, seeming to forget Crowley was there at all.

“Another?” she asked and then nodded at his blank stare, as if it were an answer in itself.

Then he turned back to face Crowley. “You’re not here to talk about my health or the weather. What is it, something wrong at one of the shops? Attempted coup at the office? You know you’re on your own there now.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Good news, really.” Crowley’s hand tightened on the cement. He didn’t miss his father’s eyes darting down to it, taking it in. He deliberately loosened his grip. If you ever had any tells, any signs of weakness, Luc Crowley would home in on them.

“Good news you’re afraid to deliver.”

“Wh--no, not, I...I’m getting married.” Crowley tried for a smile, but it felt weird, wrong. Smiling at his father wasn’t something he generally did, not a happy, open thing like this, anyway. And this one wasn’t even real.

The maid came back, set the tea down on the table and waited a few beats as if she expected acknowledgement, but there was none.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, finally, and she nodded at him and backed out like she was at the royal court or something.

“Well, you want my congratulations?” Luc Crowley said, finally. “Who’s the lady? Think I’ll at least get the chance to meet her before it’s all over?”

Crowley winced at the casual reference to his father’s impending death. “Well, uh, yeah. I’d really want you to...to meet him before the...the wedding.”

Luc Crowley didn’t react. He leaned over and picked up his mug, then, eyes on Crowley, he took a sip of the foul concoction and cradled the mug in his blanketed lap.

“Have I heard you correctly?” he asked, calmly.

Crowley nodded, his heart pounding. His father took another sip of tea.

“Congratulations,” he said, coldly.

“Thanks,” Crowley said. Relief hovered somewhere on the periphery of his feeling. It was so close, but not quite there yet. “So, I—”

“There are,” Luc Crowley began, “some things.” He paused. “There are some things better managed on one’s own, don’t you think?”

“Wh—yeah, I—”

“Good. I’m glad you understand. Adam!”

Luc Crowley’s butler appeared. Crowley had grown up with Adam, who nodded at him in greeting. Crowley nodded back, confused.

“Please escort my wayward…” Luc Crowley paused and waggled a hand as if unsure what noun to use for Crowley. “... _son_ from the premises. Do not admit him in future.”

“What? No, wait—” But Adam stepped closer, clearly reluctant but willing to use force. Crowley had no desire to challenge him; he was a big, muscular man, partly hired for his strength and his willingness to use it. Crowley threw his hands up. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Adam looked relieved. Luc Crowley looked down at his tea.

* * *

Crowley did not want to think about what had happened. So he didn’t. Or at least he didn’t talk about it. That was what made things real anyway, telling someone else about them. Oh, he knew that wasn’t really how it worked, but it helped sometimes, keeping things to himself.

He went to work like normal. He tried calling his father, but Adam, who answered, told him rather sadly not to. At the end of the month, he went to one of the MorningStar taste design brainstorming meetings. Or he tried to. Security wouldn’t let him in. Caused a stir, that did, and Crowley stalked out, red faced, trying not to scream or hit something or cry.

At home, he found that a regular managerial wage had been paid into his account. Crowley did not normally make a wage. He normally received money from a trust.

He panicked then, staring at the screen of his computer, his heart pounding and sweat pricking at his armpits. He tried his father again, over and over. Adam didn’t even pick up.

He went to work the next morning, like everything was normal. He tried calling his father from there. He tried calling the company headquarters and was redirected until he hung up. Later, an email arrived, in which he was told in no uncertain terms that he was being removed from the committees he worked with, that he could no longer expect to see financial return statements or to contribute to any creative aspect of the company’s development: “including, but not limited to, marketing campaigns, taste and product development, or company structure,” due to his lack of proper credentials in any of those areas, which, yeah, but...well, it had never mattered _before_.

Crowley drafted his own email then and sent it. He took two long breaths, then logged out and closed his laptop.

That night, he figured, he’d have to explain to Eric why he wasn’t leaving for work in the morning.

Only, that night, before Eric even arrived, Crowley received a call from Adam letting him know that nothing was needed from him, though he’d personally felt Crowley ought to know: his father had passed away that evening.

* * *

They went to the funeral, the two of them late, skulking. Eric shooting Crowley confused looks which was fair, Crowley guessed. He couldn’t figure out how to tell Eric, just kept hearing Adam’s voice on the line, “Nothing is needed from you, Mr. Crowley, but…” He hadn’t been wanted here, but how could he explain that to Eric when he hadn’t even told him everything else, when he hadn't even had time to think, to understand what it all meant?

After, when Crowley stood up to squirrel them away before people could come up to offer condolences, Eric stopped him.

“Are you that upset?” he asked. “Only, you seem more nervous than sad, really.”

That did it, Crowley did cry then, holding on to his fiance and sobbing. Some people gave him the wide berth he’d craved, others stood and waited for his tears to pass, only more insistent on offering their sympathy. Across the room, Crowley saw Adam, talking with his father’s lawyer, Ligur, the two of them looking his way.

“Let’s go,” he said to Eric.

“Wait,” Eric said. “Isn’t that the solicitor? Shouldn’t we go and set up something?”

“Set up something?”

“The _will_?” Eric said. “Or have you already settled it?”

Crowley felt as if a cold stone had dropped into his stomach. He shook his head. “No, not, not like, no. Let’s just go.”

Eric frowned, settled a hand on his back, and nodded. He let Crowley lead him out of the garden. He said no more about the will until a few weeks later. Crowley had thought Eric had forgotten it. He’d already received a letter from Ligur that his father had changed the will, that he no longer stood to inherit the house, the company, or the fortune. He’d thrown the letter out.

“So, what’s going on with the will?” Eric said, one afternoon. He looked up from his laptop at Crowley, who was sprawled across the sofa, scowling vaguely at the ceiling. He’d done a lot of that lately.

“I’m not in the will, OK?”

Eric sighed and set his laptop down on the coffee table, facing Crowley more fully. “What do you mean, you’re not in the will?”

“I’m done, all right? No longer with MorningStar, no longer...Luc Crowley’s heir for anything...just. Me. Anthony Crowley. Alone in the world.” He knew he was being dramatic, but it was how he felt, damn it. Eric’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. He’d always been the practical one.

“So you’re just...what, a shopkeeper now? I’m marrying a shopkeeper.”

“Told you, no longer with MorningStar. Suppose I could start my own.”

“Oh, fuck. Crowley, come on. I assumed you were on bereavement leave or something. The wedding is in two months! You were just not going to tell me—”

“Oh, pardon me, forgot to tell you, you know, with the stress of being disowned, forced out of my job, and my father dying!” Crowley sat up, feet on the floor, alert yet disbelieving.

“I’m marrying a shopkeeper,” Eric said to the room at large. Then he looked back at Crowley. “An _unemployed_ shopkeeper.”

“Hang on—”

“No. You know what, I think that’s exactly my problem, hanging on. To you. When all you’ve ever done—”

“Finish that.”

“And what? What are you going to do when I finish it? I’m the one with the money, apparently. Which means I’m the one with the power. For once. I mean, this flat—your father bought it, right? It’s in his name? So, if we’re asked to leave, you can’t even make rent on a studio without me, if I’m understanding you.”

Crowley scoffed. “I can get another job.”

“Oh, like it’s that easy. You know, most of us don’t just have it handed to us. Good bloody luck, Crowley. I’m done.” Eric stood up and stalked off to the bedroom.

“You’re serious,” Crowley said.

“I am, yeah,” Eric called. “Bagged Anthony Crowley, I did, not some bloody nobody. Oh, right, _shopkeeper, I mean_.”

An hour after Eric slammed the door, single suitcase in hand (had that really been all he’d brought?), he’d not moved from his spot on the couch, too numb to process what had happened. Eric had gone. Left him. _Kept the ring too,_ Crowley realized. Because he’d been written out of the will. And he wasn’t wrong. Crowley was just a shopkeeper, really. And not even that, not when he’d just quit at the only place that had been willing to overlook his distinct lack of other employment experience. Over Eric. Who had now left him. Perhaps if he’d kept his mouth shut...but no. Would have felt wrong not telling his father he was engaged. And if Eric would leave him over this, well… How did one go about finding a job anyway? He thought of Eric again, his wide, joyful eyes, always fixed on Crowley, as if Crowley lit him up, inspired him. He sobbed.

 _Some bloody nobody_ , Eric had called him. _Shopkeeper_ , like it was a dirty word, a bad thing to be. It wasn’t though. No reason, after all, he couldn’t be a shopkeeper again. More coffeeshops in the world than MorningStar. _Dream big_ , he thought, wryly.

For now, though. For now, Crowley poured himself a tumbler full of whisky, and fell back into his satin sheets alone. He didn’t know when he’d resurface.

* * *

A week later, Crowley started at Hasta La Coffee. They were glad to have him. It hadn’t been so terribly difficult, he wanted to snap at Eric. Who he hadn’t heard from. So, when Hasta La Coffee wanted to send him out to manage a store opening in Tadfield, he’d been glad to get away, glad to have a chance to start over.

His friend Bee, the best friend he had, laughed when he told them over what he’d thought of as a goodbye dinner for himself. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” they said.

Crowley frowned. They’d always ribbed each other, sure, but he’d thought that when it came down to it Bee would be there for him.

“That’s low,” he said, hoping they’d take it back.

“Yeah, well, the truth hurts, Crowley.”

“Uh, yeah, quite badly enough without your little reminder, thanks.”

No apology had been forthcoming, so Crowley took out a few bills and laid them on the table. Bee watched in silence as he got to his feet and stormed out of the restaurant. He sold all of his furniture, relinquished the flat to his father’s estate manager, and packed his clothing into his car, an antique Bentley, and drove up to Tadfield, with no idea what he’d find.


	2. Dearest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: This is the chapter where things get spicy. Aziraphale has a moment of dirty talk that is VERY spicy, though nothing is actually shown (so to speak) so if you'd like to skip that section, it's after the first +++. Just skip to the second +++ and keep reading.
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher!

Now, Crowley held the ring in his hands. It was the second engagement ring he’d bought in his life, the second time he would put himself on offer for someone who looked at him like he’d hung the stars. Aziraphale wouldn’t call it off. If he had his reasons for not wanting to make it official, it would be OK, Crowley told himself. Aziraphale wouldn’t kick him out, wouldn’t send him away. But...he thought of Eric. “Yes!” he’d said. He’d flung himself at Crowley with abandon, like nothing else mattered to him, then, when Crowley had been alone, hurting, he’d hurled that venom at him, _some nobody_.

Thing was…

Thing was, sometimes, Crowley felt like he was putting one over on Aziraphale. He _knew_ it wasn’t that. That it was OK to accept what Aziraphale offered him, even if it was good, even if it made him feel accepted and loved (which was, itself, hard to accept). But… well…

He’d hurt Aziraphale once already, just out of his own attachment and aching, bottomless need. Even though it had ended up being for the best, with Gabriel gone and Aziraphale living in the home that had always been intended for him, though with the somewhat dubious addition of Crowley—surely Aziraphale’s mother wouldn’t have approved, but Crowley kept this thought to himself)—he couldn’t completely forget the guilt of it. The way it had swallowed him, crept into so much of his thinking in those early days of their relationship as they learned how to be together.

* * *

The Lethe helped him sleep, but it didn’t do much else. Crowley hated that it would be the last of Aziraphale’s teas he’d ever drink. His stomach contracted forcibly with grief, and he curled himself under a blanket, pressed into the wall in the bed in the tiny flat under the church. He felt ill. It was one thing that his own life had gone wrong. But he’d latched onto Aziraphale, someone kind and safe, his mind had told him ever since that first meeting at Gabriel’s shop. But that wasn’t all it was—he cared about Aziraphale, and that had turned to wanting to protect him, help him—and somehow he’d hurt him instead. Crowley was worse than worthless. _Worthless_ would be like if he hadn’t made a difference. Oh, but he’d made a difference. Aziraphale was about to be out of a job, a home, and a family, all because of him. Though _family_ , well, when it was that prat Gabriel…

Whatever. It wasn’t like anyone wanted to hear his opinions about maintaining family. Least, they shouldn’t. He’d done a shit job maintaining his. Didn’t even have real friends. Bee had never called, never apologized, and he’d come to this town in the worst possible way for friends, what with the Town Council being so _anti_ -corporate and all. Which made sense. It really made sense. He’d just never thought about it that way before.

He woke up ridiculously early, even for a person accustomed to starting work at six. He got up, showered, put on old sitcom reruns and stared blankly at the screen until it was time to go in. They’d sell coffee until early afternoon, then spend the rest of the day clearing out the shop. The whole staff would come in for that part.

No one bought coffee. Crowley didn’t even bother to lay down the law when Brian and Pepper started playing some sort of loud, competitive game on their mobiles.

The shop was clear by three. Crowley waved the Them away and took his mobile out of his pocket for the first time all day. He had a missed call, a voicemail.

_Aziraphale?_

But no. It was...Ligur, his father’s attorney? He listened to the voicemail, but it was only an instruction to call back. Crowley hated that. Why did people do that? As if you’d just see a call from a number like that and _not_ call back. What, then, was the added value of leaving a voicemail? Why bother?

It was just three. Crowley called back. He didn’t want to, exactly. It was just, he felt numb. Might as well call back as not.

* * *

Crowley hadn’t wanted his father’s money. It wasn’t much of it, anyway, just a small enough amount to be insulting, really. It could get him a flat, he thought, in London. Not a particularly _good_ flat, nothing like the one he’d had in Mayfair. But something.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. All he could think of was Aziraphale. Aziraphale had tried with him, he really had. Had given him probably too much leeway. Fucking Gabriel, sure. But as much as Crowley wanted to punch his face in, he thought mostly about Aziraphale, crying on the street that day after the meeting, he thought about Aziraphale, losing his shop, not being able to do what he clearly loved and was so good at. As _shit_ as Gabriel was, _that_ wouldn’t have happened if Crowley hadn’t stuck his nose in. That was what happened when Crowley did things. So, for now, he’d just lie here, in his borrowed bed in this tiny flat, trying not to think about rent coming due.

He fell asleep. Woke up in the middle of the night. The Hasta building was going up for sale. He knew the price, had access to the information because they’d asked him if he knew anyone who wanted it. With what they were asking, Aziraphale could probably afford it.

But Crowley couldn’t ask him. Couldn’t even figure out a way to tell him without making it sound like he was trying to get something out of him. So instead, he responded to the email.

 _Yeah,_ he wrote. _I might have a buyer for you. Me._

* * *

He must have fallen back asleep, because he woke up in the morning. He checked his email. Did it really—yup, he’d definitely done _that._

He went to Tracy around nine, because that was as early as he dared to go. He was shaking. She pulled open the door, blinking at him.

“Mr. Crowley?” She said, clearly confused about why he was there.

“Tracy, hi. I, uh, I think I might have done something stupid. Can I talk to you a minute? It’s about Aziraphale.”

“What have you done to him?” Her hand tightened on the door as if she expected to have to keep him out, and Crowley’s stomach lurched.

“I’m trying to fix it,” he stammered. “Just...I know it’s my fault. Bought him a new shop, I think. If he’d want it? Do you think?”

She blinked again, her eyes going wider each time they opened. Then her body sagged and she pulled the door open wide.

“Please come in, Mr. Crowley,” she said. “I’m sure I need to hear more about this.”

* * *

Tracy let them into the shop in the dead of night, which was, well, a little dramatic, but Crowley _did_ want the gesture to have some impact. Crowley saw him come down, wrapped in his bathrobe and nightshirt—tartan—and it was so perfect he couldn’t look, not when he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t want to see him. Not when he hoped, and couldn’t bear the thought that it might all be for nothing.

He went outside and directed the others on how to put stuff in the truck to economize on room. He pretended it mattered, as if the distance of just a few blocks was too much for them to make a second trip. Crowley, after all, was nothing if not organized, and he might as well put his talents to good use. Already used his other talent well enough—fucking shit up. Oh, and he was _damned_ good at that one.

He didn’t know what he’d expected if Aziraphale forgave him. It certainly wasn’t what happened: Aziraphale sending Gabriel away, Aziraphale asking Crowley— _Crowley_ —to stay. And it certainly wasn’t the way he looked at Crowley when everything was safely inside the shop, and Tracy was shooing everyone else away. That look was...well…

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said.

“Oh, Crowley. At the risk of being terribly forward, I’d invite you back to mine if I didn’t think I’d fall to pieces at the sight of the place with everything gone.”

Crowley felt his mouth hanging open.

“I’ve, uh, got a place,” he said.

Aziraphale clasped his hands decisively. “Then lead the way,” he said. “That is, if you’re, ah, amenable.”

“Right, yeah. I am.” Smooth. Crowley was smooth. Didn’t seem desperate at all. But if it was any consolation, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. He slipped an arm through Crowley’s, which made locking up a slight challenge, but Crowley managed. No good getting Aziraphale a place to put everything and then get it all stolen the same night. He didn’t put anything past Gabriel.

* * *

It wasn’t that Crowley hadn’t thought about it—but the thing was, since that day at the festival, he’d kept his thoughts vague, kept any storylines out of it, just imagined the feel of his mouth, the touch of his manicured hands, the way it would feel to press up against him and slowly, finally, sink into all that softness.

The point was, he had no idea what to do now. His heart pounded as he thought about Aziraphale mouthing off to Gabriel, coming to his defence. Accepting him, and now... Aziraphale had never been to his flat, and he thought, as they walked along in silence, Aziraphale’s hand stroking his, that maybe he could get him a nice cup of— _oh, fuck, no_. He couldn’t serve _Aziraphale_ PG Tips.

“Eeh,” he said, out loud. Like an idiot.

“What is it, dearest?” Aziraphale said.

And there was that word again, but he couldn’t think about that. _Shit_. Was there even any scotch? Could probably do with a nice Talisker, but Crowley was pretty sure he’d drunk all of that over the last few days. Hopefully he’d thrown out the empty bottle. Couldn’t remember.

“ ’S nothing.”

Fortunately, Crowley’s idea of a messy flat didn’t seem to register to Aziraphale. Inside, he swept his eyes over the place and Crowley cringed inwardly. Maybe he had some biscuits or something? He was pretty sure Aziraphale liked those.

He turned his head to look at Aziraphale, and then Crowley found himself pushed back against the door, kisses on his mouth quickly migrating to his neck, lips replaced with a tongue and fingers creeping up beneath the vest he’d worn. He groaned at the gentleness of the touch, the hot, soft fingers against his skin.

“Is this all right?” Aziraphale asked. But Crowley could tell he knew it was, the bastard.

“Wh—yeah,” Crowley said, gasping as Aziraphale bent his head down to kiss his chest. “So I guess you don’t want any biscuits.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I did have other things in mind.”

“Yeah. Picking up on that.” Crowley raised his arms helpfully as Aziraphale tugged the vest over his head.

“And you?” Hands on his lower back, arching it, holding him in place, Aziraphale’s mouth warm on his chest.

“Yeah. Other things. Better.”

“Good.” The hands moved lower. “You may have to take care of these on your own. I’m afraid I’m at a complete loss for how you get trousers like this on at all.”

+++

With Crowley half in and half out of his trousers and Aziraphale’s bow-tie tossed on the couch (Crowley couldn’t bring himself to let it fall to the floor with his sweaty vest), they eventually made their way the four steps to the bedroom. It was long enough, though, for Crowley to remember that he didn’t have any condoms. Hadn’t expected, when he moved here, that he’d need any.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong, my dear?”

“I haven’t got condoms. You know? Got...got lube, but…”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well,” he said. “So that’s one thing we won’t do. I’m not so unimaginative as to let that ruin a very promising evening.”

“Yeah?” Crowley couldn’t suppress a grin.

They undressed quickly, breaking apart for efficiency, then crashing back together, unable to get close enough, fast enough.

Crowley, flat on his back, strained up against Aziraphale’s weight, chasing his mouth as he broke their kiss.

“Dearest,” he said. _That word again_. Crowley couldn’t _not_ notice it. “What do you want?”

“You,” Crowley said. “Want whatever you want.” He surged up, running his hands over Aziraphale’s back, capturing Aziraphale’s mouth again, feeling him shift and press against Crowley, but not quite, not...Crowley shifted again, seeking friction, but Aziraphale broke off the kiss, pulling back and taking Crowley’s hands as they slid away from him.

“I’d like for you to tell me,” Aziraphale said. He offered a small, almost shy smile, before going on. The way he looked at Crowley, very sincerely, but as if Crowley were something special, something precious and fragile. It was hard to look back. “I would hate to feel as if whatever we do isn’t as good for you as it is for me.”

 _What do I want?_ Crowley thought. And again, he didn’t know. It hardly seemed to matter, with Aziraphale astride him—whatever happened now would surely be good enough. But what did he _want_?

He’d asked Eric that once, their first time together.

 _Everything_ , Eric had said, laughing. Crowley had been charmed, had tried to impress him by doing just that. Took on a different feeling now, after what had happened. Eric had probably been laughing _at_ Crowley. He’d meant what he’d said, but not the way Crowley had taken it. He _had_ wanted everything, everything Crowley had. Crowley himself, though, well, Eric could take him or leave him. Leave him. That.

“Darling?” Aziraphale was frowning down at him now, looking dangerously close to rolling away entirely. “Oh, we needn’t—”

“No, no, angel. I want to.” Crowley reached up, grabbed his hips. “Just want…” _To please you. To keep you. To make you stay._ He couldn’t _say_ that. He took a deep breath. “Tell me what you like. That’s what I want.”

Aziraphale smiled then, a real smile, wiping away the worry that had creased his face and replacing it with incredulity, with marvel, as if Crowley were a miraculous curiosity, a rare, surprising morsel he wanted to savor in the best possible way.

“Just like that, then?” he said, coy, but not bashful. “Anything I like?”

Crowley nodded, suddenly slightly nervous. “So...what am I signing up for?” He said finally, as Aziraphale’s eyes traveled over him where he lay, naked beneath him.

“Hmm…just looking at you is a treat, Crowley. You are such a beautiful man.” Aziraphale trailed a finger down beneath his belly button, then wrapped a hand around him. “There is a great deal that I like. But for tonight…” Crowley couldn’t stop the shudder of anticipation that coursed through him. It seemed to prompt Aziraphale to look at him softly, almost as if in reassurance.

“Nothing terrible, I think. What if I suck you off while I finger you? And then, later, if you like, and only if you like, you can make me come. In whatever way _you_ prefer. I’m sure that part won’t take long. Unless, of course, you want it to.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley. His mind stopped working then.

He didn’t think of Eric again for a long while.

+++

When he did, he was standing on the street in front of Gabriel’s shop as Gabriel drove away. He was shaking, twitching. Aziraphale was getting his shop back, possibly getting the house,if Gabriel’s sudden departure from Tadfield was any indication. He was proud of what he’d done, but he knew it wasn’t _nothing_ for Aziraphale to lose his brother. Suppose he came to resent Crowley for driving him away? And suppose, deep down, Gabriel had hit upon something true—or even something Aziraphale might come to believe—that Crowley, who had grown up with money, who had grown up _expecting_ money, might be helping him only as a way of maintaining, or at least getting closer to the lifestyle he had once known?

His stomach twisted at the thought of Aziraphale going back to his shop. As much as he wanted him to be happy, he didn’t want him to go. But how could he ask Aziraphale to give that up for him?

He tried to put the worry out of his mind, but over the next few weeks it crept in, changed things, made him start to pull away. When Aziraphale moved into the Archer house, he didn’t invite Crowley to visit, preferring to eat dinner with him in Tadfield at his flat under the church, or to go out to the pub. Unless they’d decided to go to Crowley’s flat, Crowley would drive him home those nights, and he never asked Crowley in. He would if he wanted, Crowley thought; it didn’t matter what Crowley wanted. Crowley didn’t know how to tell him what he wanted without sounding like he wanted something else.

_What do you want?_

_Everything._

_Bagged Anthony Crowley I did. (Not some nobody.)_

So he stayed silent and stopped offering to sign off the Hasta building to Aziraphale. He didn’t want it. And if he stopped asking Aziraphale to show him how to mix and brew the different tea blends so he could finally be a part of that magic, well, it was only so he’d have less to think back on when Aziraphale eventually left the shop they’d run together. He wouldn’t go back to London. He’d stay a while at least, try to still give it a go with Aziraphale. He wondered how long they would last once Aziraphale was back at his shop. Even if Aziraphale wanted to make it work, Crowley was already pulling away from him; he didn’t know how to stop it. He wanted to get closer, but he couldn’t, so what else was there?

But then, they were having a fight, Crowley was begging Aziraphale to stay. He knew he wouldn’t. This shouldn’t have happened; it never should have come to this, but it had, which meant now it was over, before Aziraphale had even left.

But Aziraphale...didn’t leave. They talked. Aziraphale asked Crowley to move in.

That was the first night Crowley stayed with him at the house. After they’d made love in Aziraphale’s partially furnished bedroom, Crowley held him and whispered what he’d wanted to say months before, in the parking lot outside the empty Hasta building the night they’d moved Aziraphale out of his old shop.

“I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale let out a short, quick breath. “I know,” he said, finally. “I’ve known for a while now. But I suppose lately I...worried that perhaps you didn’t anymore. That perhaps...I’d been too pushy.”

“You _know_?”

Aziraphale broke free of Crowley’s arms, then turned around to face him, resting his head against the pillow.

“Oh, Crowley. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? You stayed in Tadfield and made it quite clear that you’d done so for me. You bought me a building. Dug into things I didn’t want to see and got me more than I could have ever imagined. Did you really think I wouldn’t know what those things meant? You haven’t exactly been subtle, darling.”

Crowley laughed and tried to ignore the question he had, the answer he wanted to hear. He gave Aziraphale a peck on the lips and tried to pretend he wasn’t _not_ looking him in the eye.

“And I can see that I have,” Aziraphale said, sounding pained. That was what made Crowley draw back and look at him. Aziraphale’s eyes were pensive, but they danced with something almost playful. Crowley couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much. “Look at me, darling.”

Crowley did, already opening his mouth to defend himself, to try to explain why he didn’t want to look at him, why it wasn’t fair, wasn’t a big deal, or whatever stupid jumble of words he could manage to eke out, but then Aziraphale kissed the jut of Crowley’s cheekbone, and spoke. His words did not move the earth, so at first they were just words, and Crowley heard them the same way he heard other words. “I love you, my dearest. Do you know...I’ve never called anyone else that? Only you. You will always be my dearest. You always have been. Even when I didn’t know it yet.”

Hearing done, Crowley began to understand. He stared, then looked down, the movement jostling the water that had pooled in his eyes. He blinked it away and was somehow shocked to find himself crying.


	3. Husband

He’d thought he’d get himself in check, get used to it. But he hadn’t, not really. And if he was tearing up again now, thinking about offering himself to Aziraphale in this way, about hearing Aziraphale tell him no, tell him, that after everything, a year together, and frequent declarations (assurances?) of love, he’d misunderstood, well, that wasn’t Aziraphale’s problem, and Crowley didn’t want to make it that.

But he wasn’t sure he could do this. Say these words again, even to Aziraphale. Have him see how much Crowley really wanted, needed, even now. Have Aziraphale say no, and leave. Or rather, ask Crowley to leave, seeing as it was his house they lived in. And he really needed to stop worrying about that, too. He wasn’t dependent on Aziraphale. Not financially, anyway. The shop was now in both of their names, and he had a decent amount of his own money saved. It was all fine. Aziraphale wasn’t Eric. Wasn’t Bee or Luc. And neither was Crowley. They were just them, and they could be whatever they wanted to be.

The ring gleamed. It was a gold ring, probably a silly thing, but Crowley couldn’t resist it—a whorl of tiny snakes, framed with finely etched feathered wings. Like Medusa. Like an angel. It was ridiculous, ornate, fussy. Pretty, though. It reminded him of Aziraphale.

When he’d gotten Eric’s ring, he’d tried to impress him, bought something expensive, something he’d known Eric would like, would have a hard time saying no to. Large and platinum; it had glittered on his hand, made him look effortlessly powerful in the way that worn wealth had. This ring, though, felt almost like a private joke. The wedding he wanted them to have—well, he had no desire to tell anyone about it. He just wanted it to be quiet, the two of them signing their names to papers, joining their hands and lives. Nothing anybody else needed to be involved with. It was just weird to Crowley that they hadn’t done it already, that was all. That there was nothing, apart from their jointly owned business, officially binding them together, making them family. But that was part of the reason he wasn’t really sure how to ask. It seemed like the kind of thing Aziraphale would like. But _he_ hadn’t brought it up. So maybe he didn’t want to?

Crowley had a moment of imagining the sort of man Aziraphale might want instead, then he put that aside, torturing himself for nothing.

* * *

Once, not long ago, they’d gotten drunk with Tracy and Shadwell and he’d heard the whole ridiculous story of _that_ unlikely couple. He’d looked over at Aziraphale and known what he was thinking, so he’d held his hand and muttered something about this not being what he’d pictured, but so much better. And then Aziraphale had agreed.

Tracy laughed and shook her head, as if the two of them had some kind of understanding. Crowley frowned.

“What?” he’d demanded.

“Well,” Tracy said, studying Aziraphale as she spoke, like she was asking for permission. “Aziraphale here had some ideas about what he wanted.”

“Uninformed ideas,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley fondly. Crowley relaxed a little, but…

“What did you want?”

“I _thought_ I wanted someone...quiet, polite, bookish. A rather retiring intellectual sort, if you will. Someone like myself, but who inspired me to be better, I think, is how I phrased it.”

Crowley made a wounded sort of noise, but he thought he schooled his face into the kind of disparaging umbrage that would do him credit.

“I was very wrong, of course,” Aziraphale said. “I simply had no idea, was only making predictions in a vacuum.”

“I could have told you,” Tracy said. “Did, in fact, I think. Read your cards for you more than once.”

“Well, you know I—”

“But you _did_ get someone who makes you better _and_ someone like yourself, in a way,” Tracy said. “Look at you both, running that shop together. Knocked out of sorts and got it together quick, you did. Both of you. And you out from under Gabriel and not taking guff from no one.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Aziraphale said. “I think—”

“Well, from each other,” Tracy said, looking fondly at Shadwell, who gave a vague grumble that sounded something like _harlot_.

“But that’s different, love.” She reached for Shadwell’s hand and gave a squeeze. Crowley could see that the unpleasant man returned it.

“You’re sure, then,” Crowley said, “that I’m the one you saw in the cards for him.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Of course you are, dear. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Tracy had only laughed.

* * *

She’d never actually answered him, Crowley realized, looking down at the ring. He didn’t even really believe in tarot and all that, but for some reason, he wanted that confirmation. From anywhere. Wanted to know he wasn’t wildly off base here.

He went over the facts.

They lived together.

They loved each other.

It had been more than a year.

But then:

Eric hadn’t wanted him. His own father hadn’t...fuck that, his _mother_ hadn’t…

Aziraphale wasn’t any of them, he reminded himself. And in a way, that made it better, but, in a way…well, thing was…

He hadn’t loved any of them the way he loved Aziraphale. Maybe he’d survived being left behind by them. But if Aziraphale did it, well, Crowley didn’t know.

* * *

Crowley thought maybe they could keep it low-key. Keep the pressure off.

“Angel,” he said, that night when they left the shop with Newt and Pepper and started off to the pub.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, smiling gently.

“W—y’ want to go to London? Have dinner at the Ritz?” Fuck, he’d meant to _say_ that, yes, because Aziraphale had said that he’d always wanted to, but not like this. He was way off script already.

“What, now?” Aziraphale looked startled, and fair enough, it was after 8 already, and they were both tired, had just agreed to eat at the pub and call it an early evening.

“No,” Crowley said. He came to a stop and scratched the back of his neck. He was bollocksing this right up. He might as well resign himself to it. He reached in his jeans pocket for the ring, or tried, to, but it was a struggle getting his fingers in. He sighed, and it came out as a growl.

“Crowley, what on earth?”

His hand closed around the ring and he drew it out, hidden in his hand. He closed his eyes, his chest swooping. God, he was going to be sick. He swayed on the spot, losing his balance a little since he couldn’t see.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale said, properly alarmed now.

“Sssorry,” Crowley said, wincing. He opened his eyes again. Held out his hand and opened it. “W—y—marry me?” he finished on a pained whisper. This was the worst marriage proposal in the history of marriage proposals. Aziraphale really did deserve better.

“Oh, my dearest,” Aziraphale said, pressing his hands to his chest. “Of course I will.” He stepped closer to Crowley and took the ring gently from his palm, because of course Crowley couldn't even manage to put it on him, completely forgot it was even a thing, and really, he guessed, it was lucky he hadn’t dropped the damned thing.

Aziraphale slid the ring on, and looked at it, his eyes crinkling, his smile too big to look at. Crowley looked at the ring instead, sparkling in the streetlights.

“Fuck,” Crowley said. But he didn’t have long to pretend he wasn’t about to cry because Aziraphale took him by the shoulders and kissed him.

* * *

They were married in the park, even though Crowley had been a proponent of just having it done right there at the house, maybe out back in his carefully tended garden. They had guests, even though Crowley hadn’t wanted any beyond the required two witnesses. It was small, though—just the celebrant (the priest of the church beneath which Crowley had rented his flat), Shadwell and Tracy, Newt and Anathema, Warlock, Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale.

Crowley could tell Aziraphale had been afraid Gabriel might surface, but he did not. And there were a few onlookers, but they didn’t stop to interfere.

They signed the papers, said the words. Aziraphale slid a ring onto Crowley’s hand, a plain black titanium band. It wasn’t as ornate as the one he’d selected, and someone else might think that meant it was devoid of meaning, but Crowley imagined Aziraphale choosing such a thing and recognized it for what it was, an understanding of himself, a desire to give him what he would want.

They kissed, quick and chaste, and there was applause. Crowley hadn’t wanted this aspect of it, had worried that it would somehow ruin things, turn it into the kind of production he would have had if he’d gotten married two years ago in London. But this, he reflected, as his eyes moved from the face of his husband (his _husband!_ ) to those of the onlookers, their _friends_ , was something he hadn’t anticipated. They were all there not just for Aziraphale, but for him as well, supporting them, not judging them the way Bee and their ilk had done. Not constantly scanning to find fault. He didn’t have to impress them. His eyes moved back to Aziraphale’s. He didn’t have to impress anyone.

Aziraphale was smiling at him indulgently, hopefully. He hadn’t needed this the way Crowley had. The understanding was sudden and sure. Aziraphale had never needed proof or certainly from somewhere outside himself. For him, as for Crowley, family had not been a reliable source of support, but where it had made Crowley crave them, it had made his angel happier to have fewer ties.

“Thank you,” Crowley said.

“Oh, _Crowley_. Now, what was that about dining at the Ritz?” Aziraphale looked around for the Bentley, and found it sitting by the side of the road, where it had, much to Crowley’s dismay, been decorated with angel wings and _Just married_ in some sort of bright yellow, temporary (he hoped) paints.

“Not just dining,” Crowley said. “Got us a room. Thought we could make it a whole week...if you want.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again. “Of course I want. I will always _want_. My dearest.”

* * *

As they sped down the M25, Crowley sneaked a look at his husband, who was clutching the door, and gave a loud, wild laugh as he reached for his hand, slowing the car down even as he did so. Aziraphale’s hand wrapped around his and Crowley couldn’t stop grinning. If he hadn’t lost Aziraphale over his driving, maybe he really never would. He’d married him after all. His husband. His angel. He hadn’t been back to London since his move, but he wasn’t nervous at the thought of it anymore. Not with Aziraphale beside him. After all, he was a different person now, and this was a new life, nothing like his old one. Maybe that meant it was all right to hope, all right, even, to believe.


End file.
